Because
by darthsydious
Summary: Molly feels there is no room in Sherlock's life for her. Sherlolly.


_Based on 'We Do Not Belong Together' from Stephen Sondheim's 'Sunday in the Park with George'. A brilliant musical, if you have time, look it up, watch it, it's such a fantastic piece. _

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><p>"I am very busy, if you will excuse me-"<p>

"Yes, run to your work, hide behind your murder cases," Molly gestured to the experiments spread out across 221b, to the yarn spider web on the wall, information from his latest case. "I've come to tell you that I'm leaving," she spoke through her tears, her voice strained. "I thought you might care to know, but I see that was foolish of me. You don't care for anything."

"I care for many things," he said quietly, looking at her.  
>"<em>Things<em>," Molly dropped her hands to her side weakly, bowing her head as she cried. "Not _people_."

"People too,"  
>"What you care for is yourself-"<p>

"I care for my work, you are a _part_ of my work-" he spoke over her.

"Only when you need me!" she shot back. "When you need a spare body, or a-a stupid head, teeth, thumbs, oh yes, you need me!" she snapped. "You don't need me, you need a-a pathologist who caters to your ridiculous demands- that's all I am to you! If John Watson isn't around, then thank heavens Molly is, she'll do anything you ask of her unless she speaks or god-forbid wears make-up or-or brings a nice chap 'round to a party! No! Then you have to ruin it," Sherlock watched as she cried, unleashing all of her pent-up anger and hurt.  
>"They were inferior to you," he said when she paused for breath.<p>

"Maybe they were, but they were my mistakes to make, you're not – I don't even know what we are!" she cried. He lifted his chin, opening his mouth about to speak. "Are we friends? Sometimes I think we are, but every time I mention something- anything that could be a success to me, you _ruin_ it- you have to come in with your stupid coat and your smile and smirk and tell me how I'm wrong, how I'm stress-eating or how my work in Oxford won't go anywhere,"

"What would you like me to tell you?" he asked, now getting rather upset.

"You could tell me not to go," she burst out. "Tell me you're feeling something, that you're relieved or hurt or…" she covered her eyes, bowing her head. Frustrated, she wiped her eyes, meeting his gaze at last. "Tell me that you're bored- tell me anything, but don't assume that I know how you feel."

"You know exactly how I feel," he stated simply. She stared, gob smacked.

"No, Sherlock, I don't, I don't know what you think about me other than the obvious derision you have in my prescence."

"I cannot give you what you want," he replied. "I am not this- person you've conjured up, I am not romantic or 'boyfriend-material', I am not one for roses and chocolates and trips to the cinema-"

"Tell me when I ever demanded these things from you?" she ground out, and there Sherlock stopped. "I have never asked you to be anyone other than yourself." Sherlock looked at his shoes. He knew exactly why he'd been pushing away from Molly. Because the truth of the matter was that he felt so deeply for her he ached. He was frightened of his feelings for her, frightened of change, of what might not come about, of what might fail between them. "I have always accepted you, that you are what you do, that you need-" she gestured to the room weakly. "This, all of this. I understand that. You've made it abundantly clear that there is no room for me in your life and-" she swallowed hard, blinking as she felt tears fill her eyes. "-and it's time for me to go."

"Don't-" he spoke before he could stop himself and she lifted her head. Sherlock took a breath. "Don't- go. Please."

"Why?" she asked, her voice soft.

He crossed the room in four strides, stepping up to her. In one fluid motion he'd pulled her to him, kissing her soundly. Lips traveling from her mouth to her forehead to her eyelids, cheeks, neck and mouth again.

"Because," he said when they broke apart at last. She nodded slowly, breathless and dazed and he kissed her again. Words, words, words! Sherlock hated words sometimes. "Because," again he kissed her. He wished, he hoped, he could convey his feelings, his thoughts through his actions and he kissed her again and again. "Because."

"That's a reason, I s'pose," she breathed when at last they parted. He rested his forehead against hers.

"I cannot promise to always tell you the words, but I do love…you, very-" another kiss. "Very much so." His hands trembled as he cradled her flushed cheeks.

"I will say them for you," she murmured. "But don't think I won't pull them out of you when I need to hear them."

"It will not come to that," he promised. A pause. "It will never come to that." He _could_ show her by his actions how he loved her. He could bring her coffee, he could walk her home and buy her dinner. He could marry her. That thought made him smile, truly smile. Molly in his life, forever.


End file.
